


(you gave me) all your love

by trevino



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Dialogue, Episode: s06e13 Dead Things, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29942130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trevino/pseuds/trevino
Summary: (and all i gave you was goodbye)Following the events of Dead Things, Spike leaves Sunnydale— this time, for good. When the First Evil comes knocking, he decides it’s time to return, and not a moment too soon. The Scoobies have fallen apart, Buffy most of all, and she never thought she’d be so grateful to see the (not-so) soulless vampire in her entire life. Things aren’t the same, anymore— can they fit in each other’s lives again, even if they want to?
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	(you gave me) all your love

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! 
> 
> i was inspired to do a series of taylor swift songs for spuffy (and btvs in general), and it was originally going to just be composed of one-shots, but i started writing this one and realized it could absolutely be a series, so i'm running with it. this one is driven by "back to december," because everything about the lyrics fits spuffy in season 6, particularly because of buffy's self-hatred arc and spike's refusal to accept it.
> 
> i wanna give a huge shout-out to my irl bestie sarah who always listens to me rant about tswift/spuffy parallels (i can't wait for you to finish s7 omg), and to all of my newfound friends on btvs twt (like aura bby ily <3) who made me excited about writing this fic and sharing it with y'all

It’s late July when Spike rolls back into town, the Sunnydale sign crushing loudly under his front tires in the evening moonlight. The days are long, and hot, and it feels like so little has changed in the six months he’s been gone, but he knows that can’t be true. A town like Sunnydale can’t stay stagnant for long, at least where the Slayer’s concerned. Three thoughts sit front and center in his mind, on repeat since he first began his drive hours ago.

Fact number one: Buffy’s still alive.

The summer he spent with Dawn following Buffy’s death after the fight with Glory was both the best and worst of times, in the least Dickensian of ways. He and the Little Bit grew close, and he finally earned his own spot amongst the Scoobies, to Xander’s chagrin. At the same time, though, the loss of his love (unrequited as it was) was often too heavy a burden to bear. Watching her descend down those steps less than a year ago was a moment he’ll never forget, no matter how much pain came after.

Fact number two: His crypt has been destroyed.

Communication between him and his not-quite-friends from Sunnydale has been somewhat few and far-between, especially given his lack of a permanent address over the past six months. His purchase of a cell phone on his way out of California, however, did prove to be quite fruitful, as he and Dawn quickly grew into a habit of leaving voicemail messages for each other full of random facts. They never had any live conversations— certainly not for Dawn’s lack of trying, but Spike purposefully avoided answering the phone when he recognized her number flash across the screen, but he kept somewhat up-to-date with the happenings of the Summers sisters. He and Clem exchanged messages as well, mostly through the use of the payphone at Willy’s; however, the news about his crypt came from an unexpected source: Tara. The shy witch had been one of the few Scoobies to even somewhat respect his presence during that difficult summer, and though she and the other Wicca bird had struggled (they’d actually discussed it once or twice in recent months over the phone, with Spike offering his own opinion and disdain for magic when necessary), she and Spike had formed a somewhat-pleasant friendship. So, when Buffy and her former boytoy, Riley, grenade-bombed the crypt to prevent a scourge of baby Suvolte demons from wrecking Sunnydale, Tara delivered the news via a soft-spoken phone call.

Fact number three: There’s a new Big Bad rising, and it certainly lives up to the name.

And that’s why he’s come back to town. He made a deal with himself, the night Buffy left him for (un-)dead, beaten to a bloody pulp outside the Sunnydale police station: if he came back, it’d be because she asked him to, nothing more and nothing less. He’d spent far long enough trying to fit into her life, and if her fists in his face were the signal he needed to quit, he had certainly earned them. It took roughly six months for her to pick up the phone and call him (after pressuring Dawn to tell her his phone number, most certainly), but when he heard her voice on the other end of the line, he knew. He and Dawn had a deal to never call on Tuesday’s unless it was an emergency— a bit of a joke between them— so when the phone rang on a Tuesday at 1am, he picked up, despite recognizing the Ravello Drive number. 

(He’s still not sure if he regrets answering the phone.)

Buffy’s voice had been frantic, uncertain, and slightly out-of-breath; and yet, Spike had fallen right back in love all the same. After that night in the alley, he’d worked hard to forget so much of what had become second-nature to him in Sunnydale— the little laugh lines that formed when he told a particularly funny (or crude) joke, the way she held an axe _just right_ so that it balanced perfectly in her lithe hands, the feeling of her fire-burning skin against the coolness of his own— but some things can’t be wished away. And the sound of her voice was certainly one of them.

So when she called him, her voice shaking slightly as she said his name— “Spike? It’s… it’s Buffy. We— I need your help.”— it felt like his heart, which hadn’t sounded a beat in nearly one hundred and thirty years, jumped startlingly to life.

Which, of course, is exactly the habit he’d been trying to train it _not_ to do, but no amount of whiskey, soul-having, or white-hat patrolling can force that act to fade.

(That’s another thing that’s changed, the existence of his soul. 

His _soul, he remarks to himself, not the pained soul of an innocent that got shoved up inside poncy Angelus’s arse by the Romani. His own, tattered but trying, soul_.

He hasn’t shared that news with anyone— not like he’d have that many people to tell, after all— and he knew it’d be a hard secret to keep, being back in Sunnydale. Not like Buffy would notice, or care to, but he had a feeling Glinda (as he’s come to refer to Tara in his head) would be able to pick up on it based on his aura, or something like that. She’d already grown suspicious that something about him had changed, after he’d disappeared for a six-week period back in March, but she’d stopped asking about it when her first four attempts were met with nothing but growls and dismissal.

Being back in Sunnydale, though, the secret’s not likely to last long.)

The phone call between him and Buffy only two nights ago had been short and unforgiving, but it tugged at the spark inside him all the same. 

_“Spike? Is that you? It’s… it’s Buffy.” Her voice had been a siren song at the end of the line, an unexpected Tuesday-evening addition to a night preoccupied with gin and bar-fighting._

_“Summers? Is the Bit okay? Is someone hurt?” His questions come out rapid-fire; after all, it’s been over six months since he heard from her, and their last interaction had ended with him beaten and abandoned on the streets of Sunnydale._

_“No, Dawn’s fine, um... We— I need your help.”_

_And weren’t those some words he never expected to hear, particularly with her little correction from_ “we” _to_ “I.” _Spike’s a lot of things, and much of it has changed since the re-introduction of his soul, but he’s always been Love’s Bitch first and foremost, and Buffy’s plea for his help certainly fits the bill._

_He realizes he’s been silent for too long, lost in his own thoughts, when he hears her voice crackle through his cell phone again._

_“Listen, I get it if you won’t help, I know we don’t deserve it— especially me, after.” (She doesn’t explain what she’s referring to, doesn’t need to— he couldn’t forget what she’s referring to no matter how much he’s tried.) “But, everything’s falling apart, and we’re under attack, and I don’t know what to do.”_

_  
_ _That much he’s known already, from his scattered updates from both Dawn and Tara. The former had told him about the comedy-of-errors break-up between Xander and Anya, and the latter had sobbed to him over Willow’s addiction to magic and subsequent mental breakdown (as well as Xander’s newfound affinity for gin, which came as a very minimal shock to the vampire). Both had been careful not to tell him too much about Buffy, at his own request, but he’s heard inklings, whispers about some new Big Bad brewing in Sunnydale, even from hundreds of miles away in Manzanita, Oregon (his most recent stop on the West coast)._

_So, ever the poetic bastard and desperate for some resolution to the thoughts that have plagued him since that night, he agrees to her proposition._

_“I’m up in Oregon, Slayer, but I can be there in a day-and-a-half, if you need me.” He doesn’t mention that he’s studied the map in every town he’s landed, calculated his distance from Sunnydale (this time, it’s about 720 miles away down the I-5 north), never staying more than a two-day’s trip away._

_“Please,” she says, barely a whisper, and his mind is made up._

_“I’ll be there with bells on, Thursday around midnight,” he responds, hanging up before she can say another word. He’s not sure he can handle what she might have to say._

He packed his bags (two old Army-issue duffles, looted from the Initiative in his departure, and a locking metal box of valuables, mostly cash and a few prized photos), loaded up the car, and was on the road in minutes. 

That had been forty-eight hours ago.

Now, at half-past-eleven at night, he’s arrived in Sunnydale, making his typical destructive entrance by knocking down the sign at the edge of town. It feels almost symbolic— almost, since he’s a different man (well, not a man in Buffy’s eyes, per se, but he’s working to eradicate that perspective from his tumultuous thoughts) than he was on any of his other arrivals. And, because this time, he has no clue what he’s driving into.

For the first time, instead of exciting him, thrilling him with the temptation of violence and mayhem, the thought puts him on edge, and the feeling of needles under his skin sits heavy as he pulls up in front of 1630 Revello Drive.

There’s one light glowing from the porch, and another illuminating the living room through the thin curtains, so someone’s awake, at least. He’s not sure yet if he hopes it’s Buffy or Dawn— perhaps seeing Buffy first will be the cold shock he needs, or maybe seeing Dawn will soften the blow.

In the end, his perspective matters very little, because as he climbs out of his car and kicks the door shut behind him, both Summers sisters appear on the porch by the front door.

_So, that’s how it’s going to be_ , he muses. Dawn never mentioned if Buffy had rescinded his invitation ( _again_ ) after their alley fight, but it appears they’ll be doing their business outside. It’s warm, but the sun’s been down for hours, so he’s made deals in much more uncomfortable venues by comparison.

Leather jacket shifting around as he moves (because no amount of hot California weather can keep that particular wardrobe choice away), Spike walks up the front entrance to the porch, training his eyes firmly on Dawn with a terse smile. He can feel Buffy’s eyes on him from her perch on the hanging bench, but he’s too afraid to look at the emotion painted on her face. ( _Coward_ , rings Angelus’s voice in his head.)

“Good to see you, Bit,” he says to the younger Summer sister. “Innit past your bedtime, though?” It’s easy to slip into this routine with her, almost parent-like in nature, after the summer ( _one hundred and forty-seven days_ , he can’t help but remind himself) he spent by her side.

Well, it lasts for a moment, until Dawn flips her hair over her shoulders (and it’s gotten so long, God these past 6 months have flown by) and rolls her eyes. Yep, that’s the teenager part kicking in. “Spike, it’s not even midnight, and it’s the middle of summer, hop off, okay?” Her words are snarky, but there’s no malice behind him.

He wonders if that’s because Buffy has enough for the two of them.

There’s no time to ask, though, because Dawn quickly turns away and hurries back into the house, calling “Play nice, don’t kill each other!” as she ascends the stairs.

And then it’s just him and Buffy, alone on the front porch. “‘Ello, Slayer.” Spike meets her eyes with his own, now, but the look on her face is still too complex to understand.

When she answers him, her voice is soft. “Do you want to, um, talk on the back porch?”

That answers his earlier question about his disinvite to the house, at least.

“Sure, I’ll meet you ‘round back in a minute,” Spike responds, wondering how much she’ll berate him if he grabs a smoke while they’re out there. He didn’t smoke much on the drive, because he knew if he grabbed one cigarette, he’d finish the pack in minutes out of sheer anxiety, so he had waited until now. (Not his finest choice, he reckons, but neither was returning to Sunnydale, after all.)

Buffy’s gaze on him after those words is so jarring, he can’t help but look at her again. “No, Spike, just... walk through the house with me, okay?” He can’t quite parse out what she’s saying; his hopes always clouded his judgement there.

“But…” he gesticulates at the entryway. 

“I… we never revoked your invitation, Spike…” she fades off shyly. “Just, walk with me?”

He shrugs, hoping the action doesn’t telegraph the conflicting swarm of emotions he’s facing ( _happiness_ , he supposes, since she didn’t disinvite him after the fight, but also hesitation, because he’s so fucking whipped for the Slayer that her easy words pull him right back into her web like nothing ever happened.), and follows her inside. His bags are still in the car, but he crams his hands into the pockets of the duster anyway, just to have something to do. Buffy always thought he was too fidgety, and that seems to be an unchangeable trait, since it stayed after the reintroduction of his soul. She’s stuck with that annoying habit for now at least.

It takes them less than a minute to wind through the house and reach the back porch, their oft-visited spot for late-night chats in the past two years. As they walk, Spike takes notice— only one heartbeat upstairs, so it must belong to Dawn, meaning the Summers house is likely not the revolving-door residence it was when he left— that unlike with him, very little has changed.

Then again, it’s not like his changes are all-too-noticeable from the outside either.

Buffy opens the screen door for him and he follows, waiting for her to make a move. When she doesn’t, instead choosing to stand stagnantly at the door jamb, he walks past her and sits on the steps, turned so that he can still see her. Her face is hidden by a wave of hair, and he thinks softly that _oh, she’s letting her hair grow out again_ and wonders what it means.

( _Poetic ponce,_ he can’t help but think as well.)

“So, um, did you have a nice drive?” Buffy asks him, and it’s so fucking _awkward_ that he just wants her to stake him and get it over with.

And, keeping with his not-giving-a-fuck approach to this return to Sunnydale (a wise ruse, to mask just how much he _does_ give a fuck), he says that very thought out loud.

“Listen, Slayer, just stake me now and get it over with, okay? At least the Little Bit’s not gonna see it,” he responds.

In typical Buffy fashion (because God, it barely took them five minutes to fall into old habits), she swings at him, a clean right hook aimed directly at his shoulder.

He flinches.

So does she.

Well, not everything’s the same, then. Buffy Summers of last December never would’ve pulled that punch, no matter how much he stiffened up.

“A’right, Slayer, I’ll just be going then,” he says, moving to stand up from the step. 

Her hand on his arm— light, hesitant, almost apologetic (as if a simple touch could possibly convey so much)— stops him. As does the soft whimper emitted from her mouth.

“Spike… I’m sorry.” 

Love’s Bitch, that’s him, through and through, because those three words send electricity coursing through his veins (even more than any of her kisses, or punches, or sharp witty jabs).

This time, when he meets her gaze, her green-tinted eyes are lined with tears.

“Slaye— Buffy, what’s wrong?” It’s the safest question he can think to ask, after all, and he’s reminded of the last time he uttered those words to her. It was the night she had asked him to tell her about the two Slayers he’d killed, and he’d returned later that evening to kill her when he found her crying because of her mom’s brain issues.

That was less than two years ago, now, and yet it feels like a lifetime away. For Buffy, an entire lifetime has passed since then, given her intermittent death.

Buffy’s response to his question is a non-answer, but he didn’t expect much more than that. Instead, she offers him a question of his own to respond to. “Sit with me?”

It’s likely to pause his incessant pacing at the bottom of the stairs, but he relents and sits down against the other side of the steps, a solid four feet between them. It’s not enough, not enough distance to keep him from smelling the sweet-thick scent of shampoo and nervous sweating. And yet, he’d do anything to be closer to her.

For a minute, they’re silent again, Buffy’s soft crying filling the emptiness in between them. Then, she speaks.

“Thank you for coming, Spike,” she says. “Seriously. We’re kind of at the end of our rope here, with Willow going all psycho-Wicca and Xander getting really friendly with his dad’s alcohol, and Giles deciding that England’s more fun because he doesn’t have to deal with us, and Dawn starting at Sunnydale, and—” Her breath goes ragged, and her words collapse into sobs.

Fuck.

Spike’s kept his distance (or tried to, at least), but watching her cry? He couldn’t help but comfort her _before_ he got his soul, and now it’s all but impossible to resist. So, he throws caution to the wind, scoots over, and places his right hand carefully against her back between her shoulder blades. His touch is light, uncertain, but it feels like fireworks all the same.

Over six months since he saw her, felt her presence next to him, and yet it always feels like coming home.

( _Ponce_.)

“‘M sorry, Slayer, if I—”

Her cold laughter stops him in his tracks, and he looks back at her. She hasn’t moved away from his touch, but she hasn’t leaned into it either, and he’s stuck debating if he should pull his hand away.

“You’re sorry?” she asks, words bitter and tight. “You? For what? I’m the one who… who beat your face in, Spike, you were trying to help me and I just, I nearly killed you, and I walked away! I nearly got myself locked up for nothing, and abandoned Dawn, and she already hated me enough for you leaving but it got worse, and you’re sorry? You?”

Well, he didn’t expect that either.

“Yeah, pet, I am,” he responds, wondering momentarily if he should nix the pet names and then deciding quickly that he doesn’t quite care. “I made a promise, remember? Protecting the Bit, ‘to the end of the world’ and all that rot, and I left. Walked out, just like Captain Forehead, and the Commando, and your Wanker-man. So, I’m sorry.” 

Quietly, he adds: “I needed you to know that.”

His words do little to stop her from crying, but the rate of her tears begins to slow as she raises her head again and finally, _finally_ leans back against his waiting arm. They’re touching more than they have in months, and for the first time in almost a year, it’s not laced with the same self-hatred of before.

“Spike…” she starts again, fading off. “Where were you? I know that Dawn kept up with you, phone calls and all that— that’s how I got your number, if you hadn’t guessed— and Will mentioned something about Tara talking to you too, but I wasn’t sure.”

He sighs, looking at her now. There are so many things he wants to say, _needs_ to say, and he’s not sure if she’ll like all of it (well, knowing her, she’ll probably hate most of it), but none of it feels quite right in the moment.

“It’s a long story, Slayer. Not all of it’s pretty, eh?” he says with a slight smile. God, he has no clue what to tell her, not now. Not with the memories of their last interactions playing so heavily in his mind.

_He had pulled her away from the door to the station, shoved her into the waiting alley behind them. Her eyes were furious, but two can play at that game._

_“You’re not going in there,” he says, blocking her return to the building with his slight form._

_“I have to do this. Just let me go,” she pleads. That’s what she’s wanted all along, right? To go, to disappear, to fade away?_

_“I can’t. I love you.” It’s selfish;_ he’s _selfish, but it’s still the truth._

_“No, you don’t,” she says, eyes firm welling with tears._

_Fuck._

_Her jabs at him tend to sting, the verbal ones more than the physical by far, but that’s sharper than he’s accustomed to. He’s used to her dismissing his feelings, rebuking them at every turn, but having them thrown back in his face? Because she’s not just saying that he_ doesn’t _; she’s saying that he_ can’t _love her, and whether it’s because she feels undeserving, or simply because he’s a monster and incapable of it, he’s unsure._

_Neither option is particularly comforting._

_“You think I haven’t tried not to?” He hates how his voice cracks, grows thick with the emotions that she’s unwilling to face._

_And that’s the truth, isn’t it? It’d be so much easier if he didn’t love her, if he could just leave Sunnydale in his rearview mirror without a care in the world. But he can’t. He’s tried._

_Buffy throws the first punch, casting him into a metal trash can fifteen feet away._

_“Try harder,” she begs. Is it for her sake, or his own?_

_She turns away, moving back towards the station doors._

_Spike gets up, growling, in full vamp-face now when he throws her to the ground. Flipping the script once again; she gets up instantly to face him, but the point remains. “You are not throwing your life away over this.”_

_“It’s not your choice.”_

_He remembers, for a moment, one of their first interactions all those years ago. When her weasley little high-school pal Ford begged to become a vampire, and nearly got Dru killed in the process. That was a choice, his choice, to love— and yet she still thinks he’s incapable of the feeling. That she’s the only one who can feel, and even that feeling’s lost in the wind._

_“Why are you doing this to yourself?”_

_“A girl is dead because of me.” The tears begin to fall now, slowly racing down her cheeks, and he can smell the bitter salt just as strongly as the fear and determination coursing within her._

_“And how many people are alive because of you? How many have you saved? One dead girl doesn’t tip the scale.” When he speaks, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say, always is; he’ll never understand, not the way she wants him to._

_“That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Just another body!?”_

_Maybe he really is just the inadequate monster she paints him to be._

_“Buffy—” he sighs, and she approaches him with her hands poised for a fight. It’s predictable; she swings, he blocks, she swings again, and the punch hits him squarely in the stomach as he leans over._

_“You can’t understand why this is killing me, can you?”_

_Can’t, don’t, won’t._

_Maybe she’s right. But he still has to try._

_“Why don’t you explain it?” The question, innocuous as it could’ve sounded from anyone else’s lips, leads her into another kick, slow enough that he could block it again._

_He doesn’t._

_Buffy’s fist collides with his face, pushing him a couple feet backwards. “Come on, that’s it, put it on me. Put it all on me,” he urges, and she complies. He’s playing with fire— he knows it— and maybe this is how he deserves to burn._

_They spar again, with him electing not to block her punches, but each one knocks the unnecessary wind out of his chest._

_Spike speaks again, “That’s my girl,” and regrets it immediately (at least, mostly) when he sees the brokenness in her eyes._

_“I am not your girl!”_

_This punch lands him flat onto his back, head hitting roughly against the concrete alleyway._

_And then it truly begins._

_Her punches strike dead-center, and her straddled position on top of him feels like prison rather than its typical salvation. It dawns on him, now, how much of this has come full-circle— beneath her, once again._

_“You don’t have a soul!” Every few words is punctuated with a new strike across his face, and as blood begins to pool from his wounds his vamp senses switch into overdrive._

_“There is nothing good or clean in you,” she cries, and his yellow eyes meet her own. Fuck, but if he doesn’t want to just kiss her and make it all go away. Love and pain, that’s him, he can barely resist._

_“You are dead inside!” Another punch, making the cold chain of his necklace press into his already-bruising skin._

_“You can’t feel anything real!”_

_He wonders, now, who she’s talking to, as the memory of her sung words to him echo in her head._

_“_ This isn’t real, but I just wanna feel…”

_“I could never be your girl!” There it is. The truth, the one they’ve danced around longer than either one has realized. (The selfish part within him whispers,_ she said _could_ not _would_ , so maybe it’s not your fault after all _— but this is Buffy, and he knows his place. Beneath her.)_

_With the last wave of punches, his carefully-crafted control fades, and he slips softly back into his human visage as his eyes struggle to stay open._

_She freezes, as if seeing him (really, him, not just a punching bag made of flesh and bone) for the first time._

_Buffy backs away, and though his mind is spinning, he utters his only thoughts with his last struggling breath. The nail in the proverbial coffin, the final punch that makes the victim die._

_“You always hurt… the one you love, pet.”_

_A little moan— one of fear, anguish, far from the ones of pleasure he prefers to create— emits from her mouth as she stands up now, crippled with the posture of someone who realizes exactly what her hands have created, just a little bit too late._

_“Buffy?” He can’t see her now, can barely open his eyes against the swelling skin, but he can still smell her nearby._

_Then, it fades, as she walks past him and he reaches one weak hand out in her direction. Too little, too late._

_“Buffy….”_

The thought of his broken voice back then, as he lay on the cold cement, makes his mouth taste bitter even now. 

“Okay,” Buffy says quietly. He knows he’s in the wrong, now, being so standoffish when she _apologized_ (and did he ever think he’d hear those precious words from her mouth, directed at him? Not in his wildest of dreams.), but it’s too much, too soon, and not nearly enough at the same time.

“I am, though, Slayer—Buffy,” Spike responds, correcting himself when she stiffens at the repeated mention of her title. 

“Hmm?” It’s the first sound she’s made in minutes, and he’d wondered if she’d nearly drifted off to sleep beside him until she spoke— but the spike in her heart-rate when he spoke told him otherwise.

“Sorry. ‘M sorry, love,” he says. There’s so many things he could apologize for— the Bot, not killing Ben when he could’ve, letting her jump, following at her heels, and leaving in the end— but the silence says more than he can begin to say.

They shift on the stairs, and Buffy’s fingers interlace with his own. He can feel the calluses from where she holds her stakes (finally fully-formed after her stint in the grave and the painful re-development process), can feel that slight shake in her hand when she grasps his, can feel the impossible warmth (comforting especially to his century-cold skin) that he can only describe as purely _Buffy Summers_ energy. Can feel her, after so long and so far away.

“So am I, Spike. So am I.” 

And for now, that’s enough.


End file.
